


Logistical Problems In The State Of Texas

by Phrenotobe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Babies, Gen, Jade Strider - Freeform, Original Character(s), Rose Strider - Freeform, john strider - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rattling home on the bus, he gets a few stares, offering his fingers to play with and separating the blonde ones (they keep hitting each other) and joggling one on his knee. He'll need to adjust some parameters, that's for sure. <br/>Bro swings by his tiny flat after a long walk up stairs, puts a kid on the floor (It starts tugging on his pants leg so he figures he picked the right one) stuffs his key into the lock, levers open the door with his wrist and his elbow, and drops all three on the fold-out couch. Three? Shit. He pulls open the door just as the fourth starts to wail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Logistical Problems In The State Of Texas

Bro stands in the smoking ruins of his favourite radio store, and the first problem that occurs is that he is down three pairs of shades. He does ip-dip-battleship and places the tiny pair on a freckled nose, picking up one child and propping it into the crook of his arm, feeling the little guy cling automatically to his shirt. Guess he'll just have to come back for the dead pony later. He thought he'd be more concerned about this, but all he's got is a chill like a part of him is running on automatic. Knees fine, distinct lack of spaghetti in the area. Slight change of plans. 

He puts the girls on one side and the boys on the other, not checking but sorta guessing by how they look. If he has three girls and one lil dude later, who cares. Bro has got just enough baby junk stockpiled to last out the week, if his calculations are correct.   
Rattling home on the bus, he gets a few stares, offering his fingers to play with and separating the blonde ones (they keep hitting each other) and joggling one on his knee. He'll need to adjust some parameters, that's for sure.   
Bro swings by his tiny flat after a long walk up stairs, puts a kid on the floor (It starts tugging on his pants leg so he figures he picked the right one) stuffs his key into the lock, levers open the door with his wrist and his elbow, and drops all three on the fold-out couch. Three? Shit. He pulls open the door just as the fourth starts to wail. 

He spends a couple minutes internally wailing himself, before he pulls himself back together. Cute lil' diaper fillers. He glances at the couch. Square glasses and lil' shady have fallen asleep and one of them is drooling on the other. They're definitely not newborns. Gotta call an expert. 

He fits together a plan, puts the long-haired girl in the crib he got for cheap at a thrift store last week, and borrows some laundry baskets to separate the boys. The neighbors have multiples of their own sprogs and they can mind his new arrivals for a while, so he sticks headband in a package-fresh baby harness up on his chest while he goes out to look for more kid stuff.  
Like any new father in a crisis, he decides to call his mom.

His foster mother lives in an old flat on the edge of Houston, and she's surprised to see him when he rings the doorbell. They both have more creases than the last time they talked – Bro doesn't keep up with anybody that well. 

“Hi abuela,” he says, gesturing to headband, blowing spitbubbles at chest height. She laughs in surprise, pats his cheek, coos a welcome to the kid and ushers him inside. A gangly teen full of elbows and angles stares at him, reminding him way too much of himself.   
“She has your eyes,” she says, leading him into the kitchen to sit down. He laughs, because he never saw it and never noticed, they're all a random grab-bag of features at this age and he's not got past the tertiary accessories yet to identify them with.  
“Well I don't see it,” he says, trying to lead into the funny thing that happened on the way to smashing up his local hangout. She just laughs and shrugs, going to the sink and washing up a cup. A boy interrupts her on the way and she makes him some juice, before he stands by the table and watches Bro like he's the brand new channel of illicit late-night television. Headband starts squeaking, making buzzing sounds with her mouth. He offers her a finger to gum on without realizing it, the rest of him concerned with how the place looks after more than a decade.   
“Oh she definitely takes after you,” his mother says behind him, putting a drink down on the table. She made him juice, too, and something in his eyes starts to prickle. He focuses hard to suck the moisture back up. It's baby smell that is doing this. Bro Strider is stone cold. “Just as loud!”   
She sits down to rest her feet for a scant moment, slow to settle onto the kitchen chair.

“What's her name,” she says, and Bro's fingertip is relinquished for a moment with a pop as headband stares at Bro's mom for a long, measured moment, baby eyes focusing as best they can on the shapes.   
“She doesn't have one,” Bro fills in. He spots the anger just a second before it spills over. He walked right into that issue. He's gotta bring this back before it gets out of hand, or he'll have even more problems to fix on the stack.   
Headband reaches up to grab for his chin.   
“Ssh, baby girl,” he mutters. “I'm in trouble.” 

\--

Flash forward to the future, and Bro still feels like he's driving with half-cut brakes and fucked up steering, but he's just about managed to bring them up in ways his Mami would deem acceptable. Despite the few hiccups on the way – the time they all cut their hair short to match each other, the many times they fucked up his computer and corrupted the hard disk drive – school fights, shared Christmas presents, broken plates and rooftop strife near-misses, everything seems okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Bro even manages to scam real birth certificates for them all, but he needed so much bullfuckery to make that happen that they didn't come through until they were five.   
> He throws a legitimacy party.


End file.
